


In a Silver Chain, of Evening Rain, Unravelled.

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fluffy-ish, I'm never quite sure, M/M, Or is it just slash?, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:25:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald Cobblepot loved rainy days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Silver Chain, of Evening Rain, Unravelled.

**Author's Note:**

> More from Jim and Oswald. It's from Oswald's perspective this time. This will be a stand-alone, but you can assume that anything I do winds up happily eventually, as I am utterly incapable of writing angst :)
> 
> The title is from a Beddoes' poem:
> 
> How many times do I love thee again?  
> Tell me how many beads there are  
> In a silver chain  
> Of evening rain,  
> Unravelled from the tumbling main
> 
> I go by sunlitroom over on Tumblr.
> 
> Any comments always gratefully received.

Oswald Cobblepot loved rainy days. When everyone else complained, and turned their collars up against the weather, he revelled in the muted light, and the cool swishing sound the cars made as they drove along the city streets.

He supposed that this singular taste of his came from his childhood, or, more specifically, from his _despised_ schooldays. Sunny days had meant leisurely walks to and from school, which – for Oswald – had simply meant more time to be tormented by the other children, pulling at his funny clothes, calling him names, and imitating the posture his twisted spine produced. It had also meant sly trips, and kicks, and slaps – but such humiliating memories made Oswald feel a white hot anger at the base of his skull, and so he did not ruminate on those details.

_Rainy_ days, though. On rainy days, his dull, narrow schoolmates had all scurried home quickly, leaving him gloriously alone. Oswald did not, on these days, have to spend his walk home anxiously scanning the street around him, trying to anticipate the next blow, or cruel name. On rainy days, the city streets had belonged to him alone, grey and gleaming and smoothed by the rain. Oswald had always dawdled home luxuriously on those days, investigating new streets and alleys, his mind calm and unharried – just him and the city and the rain.

His mother had always scolded him when he finally got home, late and bedraggled. He might catch his death! And then what would happen? Her poor heart would break! This wasn’t really so bad, though, since the scolding was always accompanied by a fierce hug, and hot cocoa, and good smells from the kitchen. Later, he would sit by the window, wrapped in a soft blanket, and pore over the old encyclopedias his mother had bought him – insisting that schoolwork was not enough to nurture her clever boy’s mind. He would eagerly seize on history and politics and myths, and he read for hours on end with the sound of the rain beating against the window beside him, as happy as an unhappy boy could be.

Oswald’s love of rainy days stayed with him into adulthood. Even now, the cool damp never failed to soothe any anger and hurt, and he often found his best ideas and plans emerged on rainy days, sparkling and new. On days when his leg hurt badly, and long walks were not possible, he would have Gabe drive him round the rainy streets in his black shiny car. With the window rolled down and a soft scarf wrapped warmly round his neck, he would watch the soaked streets slide past, feeling his racing mind grow still.

On one of these excursions, Oswald had been resting his head back against the seat, watching Gotham slide by, when he suddenly found the comforting uniformity of the city streets disrupted by a familiar figure. Outside a dingy pawnbrokers in a down-at-heel neighbourhood stood one James Gordon, shoulders hunched against the rain, his eyes scanning the sidewalks. Oswald felt that strange pull in his chest that seemed to appear whenever Jim Gordon did, an initial sense of warm satisfaction at the sight of him, with a nervous fluttering of excitement close on its heels. Impatiently telling Gabe to pull over, he leaned out of the window and called to him.

”Detective Gordon! James! What a serendipitous meeting! What brings you here?”

James had frozen on the spot when he had spotted Oswald, before bringing himself reluctantly over to the car.

“A case,” he said, tersely.

_Well, obviously_ , Oswald’s mind retorted, and if it had been anyone but his good friend Jim he would have rolled his eyes. He made a show of looking from one end of the empty street to the other, before looking back at Jim.

“Willing witnesses are a rare enough breed in Gotham. You’re definitely not going to find them just strolling along the street in a neighbourhood like this, on a day like this. Please, allow me to give you a ride back into town.”

He could see that Jim was likely to demur at accepting a ride in a car that did rather scream mob, and that his precious principles would instead make him trudge all the way back to his precinct in the rain. And while Oswald loved the rain, Jim – truth be told – looked a little like a drowned rat, with the rain dripping miserably off the end of his nose. A thought struck him.

“After all,” he said, widening his eyes and putting on his sincerest face, “the sooner you get back into town, the sooner you’re back at work.”

That did it. Oswald mentally hugged himself for his own cleverness, watching Jim’s blue eyes flicker as he considered briefly and nodded once. Oswald quickly shuffled over to the other side of the seat, allowing Jim to open the door and get inside.

Once inside, Jim turned and offered a tight, rueful smile. “Thanks,” he said. “Harvey had to take the car to go meet an informant, and trying to get uniform to actually do their job and question passers-by …… I figured it was less trouble to do it myself.”

Oswald’s heart gave an abrupt little squeeze at Jim’s obvious dedication to his duty (inconvenient as it sometimes was), and the warmth that spread out from his heart reached his face, pulling it into a smile that he suspected looked rather silly. He reached his hand out and rested it on Jim’s forearm.

“The care you take over your work does you credit,” he said warmly, punctuating the comment with the tiniest, lightest stroke of his thumb, before leaning back to regard him.

Jim didn’t quite seem to know what to do with this compliment. Oswald tilted his head a little, watching him flex his hands on his knees, and pull a rather pained smile in response. Modesty suited him, Oswald thought happily, adding another entry to his list of James Gordon’s good – if rather _impractical_ – qualities. He quickly cast about for a more neutral topic, to try and put the poor man at ease.

“This neighbourhood used to be very distinguished, you know. Very prosperous”, he said, gesturing vaguely to the window.

“Really?” Jim responded, his tone dubious. “Can’t imagine that.”

“Oh yes. You see, in the early days of the city, powerful trading houses were established here to manage the business from the ports. Later, though, the nature of trade changed, and power moved to the east side….” Oswald could hear his own voice grow warm and animated as he talked about the history of the city. It was one of his favourite subjects, one he knew he was very knowledgeable about, and to be able to talk to Jim about it – well, that was a treat he had not anticipated. He realised suddenly that he had been talking uninterrupted for a while, gesturing to streets and building passing by outside the window, and glanced quickly at Jim’s face, with a little lurch of worry that he was boring him. He was met by a steady blue stare, more open and relaxed than he was used to, and he felt his throat tighten, and heard his own voice falter a little.

Jim cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I…...” he gestured to the open window.

“No, no of _course_ not,” Oswald said quickly. “It’s a, well, it’s a little caprice of mine. Driving in the rain. Walking in the rain.” He leaned over to wind up the window on his side. Turning, he opened his mouth to ask Jim whether he enjoyed the rain too, only to find Jim’s eyes resting on him again, an odd, contemplative look in them that Oswald – who lived by reading faces and the stories they told – could not quite decipher. 

“I like the sound of it in the mornings,” said Jim, shortly, his voice a little gruff, answering the question before Oswald could ask it, turning his head abruptly to look out the window.

Oswald found that words quite failed him at that, as his imagination dutifully supplied him with an image of Jim Gordon in the subdued light of a rainy morning, listening to raindrops trickle down his bedroom window. He could feel his cheeks redden impossibly, and felt grateful that the grey light offered some little disguise. Blushing was not really conducive to the sophisticated persona he wished to project.

Caught in his usual quandary of wanting to prolong any time with Jim, versus how flustered that time made him, Oswald cast about in his mind for an excuse to extend this unexpected and very pleasant interlude.

“Would it be a _very_ great inconvenience to you if we stopped briefly at my club?” he asked lightly – not wanting his intentions to seem too obvious. “It’s on the way, and I just need to check in – make sure the new members of staff are settling in”. He pasted a deliberately bland expression to his face, and waited to see if Jim was as well-mannered at heart as he suspected him to be. He was, and Oswald gleefully added ‘well-bred’ and ‘courteous’ to Jim’s increasingly lengthy list of qualities.

When they arrived, Gabe pulled up at the side entrance, which would take them directly into Oswald’s office. He climbed awkwardly out of the car behind Jim – putting his whole weight on his bad leg was always a little difficult – and wondered whether he had simply imagined that Jim’s shoulders had tensed at the little sound of exertion and discomfort he had made. Stepping quickly ahead of him, he opened the door with a flourish, ushering Jim inside.

When inside, he made straight for the drinks cabinet in the corner. “I know you’re on duty, but a brandy in this weather…well…it’s practically medicinal. Or would you prefer Irish coffee?” He could see Jim beginning to frown a little, and rushed to add, “Or just coffee, just while I talk to the staff, since you were kind enough to stop here?” 

Even Jim couldn’t really object to a plain cup of coffee, and Oswald quickly made him one from the little set his mother had given him for his new office, solicitously placing the saucer directly into his hands, before heading quickly through the door to the main club, inwardly cursing at how lurching and noticeable his limp must be, given the sharp pain in his leg today.

After spending five minutes for appearance’s sake, asking mundane questions he already knew the answers to, Oswald had hobbled quickly back through the office, stupidly relieved to find Jim was still there, finishing his coffee. 

“Everything OK?” Jim asked.

“Perfectly, perfectly”, Oswald smiled, rubbing his hands together. “Do you feel a little warmer?”

“Yes, thank-you”, Jim responded, his tone neutrally polite, and his smile a little strained. Oswald frowned a little at this response. It had seemed like an innocent enough question to him, solicitous of his guest’s comfort. “Well, then” he said, gesturing to the door. “Shall we go?”

The journey towards the precinct was quieter, but oddly companionable. Oswald contented himself to making occasional light observations and small talk, dividing his gazes between Jim and the view outside the window.

When they got about a block from the precinct, he reached out and tapped Jim’s arm lightly. “Would you prefer that we stop here? Discretion, and all that kind of thing?”

Jim looked momentarily surprised by his thoughtfulness, before agreeing with him and moving to leave. As he reached for the door hand, Oswald had a sudden thought. “Wait!” he exclaimed, tugging at Jim’s sleeve. Fumbling beneath the car seat, he triumphantly drew out his spare umbrella, and pressed it into Jim’s hand with a brilliant smile.

Jim looked down at it, and raising his eyes to meet Oswald’s, gave him the smallest, briefest, but most beautifully sincere smile he had ever seen – and Oswald had felt his heart positively soar. He exited the car quickly and headed towards the precinct, but Oswald made Gabe wait anyway, so he could watch Jim, carefully sheltered by Oswald’s umbrella, making his way down the rainy Gotham street, which glittered even more wonderfully than usual.

Oswald Cobblepot loved rainy days.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you for reading, if you made it this far. I think Oswald's thoroughly smitten, and pretty inexperienced, so it made sense to me that he would be starry-eyed and romantic in tone when it comes to Jim - even though he's utterly conniving and ruthless elsewhere :)
> 
> That inexperience means that Oswald occasionally find it hard to read Jim, here - and is occasionally blissfully unaware of when he's actually managing to get to him :D On top of that, Jim is feeling conflicted about Oswald, and sending mixed signals, which muddy the waters.


End file.
